


Bell Test

by Good_Grief



Series: short stories with even shorter plots [1]
Category: Naruto
Genre: Breathplay (implied), Established Relationship, Light BDSM, Light Bondage, M/M, Orgasm Delay/Denial, Power Play, Safe Sane and Consensual
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-09
Updated: 2021-01-09
Packaged: 2021-03-13 03:07:52
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28646526
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Good_Grief/pseuds/Good_Grief
Summary: He’s maddening in the way that the Sharingan is; highly detailed, highly dangerous and deeply complex.Tobirama's famous bells are very pretty tied around Uchiha Madara's wrist.
Relationships: Senju Tobirama/Uchiha Madara
Series: short stories with even shorter plots [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2099337
Comments: 8
Kudos: 110





	Bell Test

**Author's Note:**

> Oh boy. I've never posted anything with an E rating before, but I wrote this a while back and it ought to be enjoyed. No beta, no plot, just dirty, dirty words.

**Bell Test**

  
  


The bell feels cold in Madara’s clenched hand. The singing metal is only muffled by his flesh. Not a sound rings out and his muscles tense and stretch with the anticipation. 

“I think I prefer you like this Madara,” Tobirama observes. His legs are crossed, he’s seated in a chair while Madara sits on the bed. He’s far too dressed for the occasion, Madara thinks. His eyes narrow as he leans forward toward the bed. “You’re not tied at all, but you won’t move. Not if you want me to stay.” 

It’s shameful to admit it, but he desperately wants him to stay; he is sitting so terribly still that he feels his thighs tremble with the tension. 

“Here’s how this is going to go,” Tobirama continues talking and the words ring in Madara’s ears. He captures his attention with only the softest of tones, confident that Madara is hanging on his words as if he were divine. “It’s going to go exactly how you’ve imagined it.” 

_Oh,_ and he’s imagined it. Since the day Tobirama held his sword and stayed his blade at the tip of Izuna’s flesh, since he saw that ironclad control wielded on the battlefield, he has wondered. What would it be like to break that control? What would it like to be seduced by it? That control is illuminated for him now, was illuminated when Tobirama marched into his house, looked him dead in the eyes and said “Kagami informed me you have a _thing_ for me.” 

He sputtered of course, denied it, flushed and flailed and denied it again. 

“It’s unfortunate that my student is mistaken,” he said, only the smallest tilt of his lips bellying his amusement. “I may have, as he so eloquently put it, a _thing_ for you too.” 

“What?” Madara asked, “All this time, I’ve been wondering if you were attracted to anyone, anything, if you could even be attracted to anyone…”

“Of course, you talk too much,” Tobirama said. “So many extra words for such a simple concept.” Madara would have kindly pointed out that was exactly what Tobirama was doing right now, but he was cut off with a kiss. A kiss of raw blazing emotion that was too deep for the simple words that had started it. A start flickering from a small flame to a heat that raged like an inferno, a cry of “yes, yes, yes,” and the words that lit a visible fire in Tobirama’s eyes: _“please.”_

“So tell me, Madara, is this part exactly as you imagined? Nothing but my words and your will to hold you in place.” 

“Yes,” he says, and it’s a relief to not be in charge for a moment, to be free of the responsibilities to his clan, his village, his heir. 

Tobirama finally approaches the bed, a ribbon of silk in his hands, crimson and slippery. “Here’s the rules. You ring that bell if you want me to stop. I’ll go back to sitting on my chair, we’ll talk.” 

“I suppose,” Madara says, his eyes flickering up to meet Tobirama’s ruby gaze. He’s been here before, he knows that the moment he rings that bell, everything stops. He knows that Tobirama gets off on giving him an out almost as if to see if he’ll take it; knows that there is enough trust between them to walk on the edge. He sees Tobirama waiting out his affirmation and knows that a battle of patience isn’t one he will win. “Yes,” he says instead. 

“If you want more, too bad. You’ll take what I give you,” Tobirama says, the words sound cold but to Madara it’s the kind of challenge he wants to cut his eye teeth on. 

“I can take anything that _you_ can dish out,” he narrows his eyes, _challenge accepted._

“Good boy,” and it’s patronizing, made to be provocative, evocative of his anger. Madara knows that he gets off on his reaction, forces the urge to give into name-calling and mudslinging down his throat with an audible swallow. “Open your mouth.” 

Slowly, as if considering the action, Madara allows the thumb running across his lower lip to dig in a little; _allows_ Tobirama to lick across the seams as if to slowly coax him to do just that. It earns him a kiss to the corner of his mouth, a hand in his hair and a sharp _tug_ to accompany it. He moans low and Tobirama takes advantage, his thumb sliding through open lips to press against his tongue, fingers playing lightly across his jaw in silent laughter. The hand in his hair finds its way back to the silk ribbon. “Keep your mouth open,” he reiterates, and his voice is as smooth as the silk he presses against open lips. 

“Hold that there, won’t you?” He hums, as the silk soaks through with spittle. If he talks he’ll drop it, and he’s not willing to risk Tobirama just turning and walking out that door. Not willing to risk how unsatisfied Tobirama is willing to leave them both on a whim, on a simple disobedience. Not if he doesn’t say the safeword, not if he doesn’t ring the bell. 

Tobirama fetches a leather thong to tie up his hair, and Madara waits, clothed in nothing but a haori and a hair tie, red silk still dripping from his lips. 

“Can’t have your mane getting in the way now,” Tobirama hums and it’s still infuriating. There he is, acting like this isn’t turning him on, like he’s not hard under all of these layers, like those nimble little fingers aren’t going to be wrapped around his throat and his cock as the hour grows late. Madara growls, low and muffled by his closed lips. Tobirama leans into him, his chest to Madara’s back, his teeth lightly closing in on Madara’s neck. “Make all the sound you like, I’ll know when you cry my name, gag or no gag.” 

That’s what the silk is, a gag. Tobirama takes the ends and ties it tight, under the high messy knot that he’s made of his hair, he ties the ends, securing them with a pin. He pushes Madara around to face him, and then pushes his shoulders down to the bed. He earns another growl as his hands draw Madara’s up to lay above his head, checks that the bell is there, in his hand and tied to his wrist. 

There’s an attentiveness there that Madara never would have suspected. The attention to detail, of course, has always been omnipresent but the sensitivity, knowing that he cares in his own way is a powerful revelation. 

He can only do this because Madara _allows_ it, he allows for the Senju heir to take the shape of Madara’s indelicate surrender. 

Allows him to consume it. 

And consume him, he _does._ Tobirama’s hands are given gifts from Amaterasu as they course over his chest, down the dips and rivets of hard lines that make up his abdomen. They leave trails of fire in their wake where there should be ice. Tobirama’s face gives little away, but his hands cannot lie, cannot hide the eager way they push aside his haori. The way that they tenderly stroke the back of his knees, drawing them up and around Tobirama’s clothed hips. The action draws a moan from the back of his throat, hair catching as he throws his head back as Tobirama finally settles his weight over his hips. His naked, untouched cock twitches with the brush of fabric and hopes it promises eventual pressure as Tobirama settles his hands on either side of Madara’s head to take his weight. Madara reaches up with his empty hand, intent on pulling Tobirama into him, only for Tobirama to push himself out of reach. 

“I told you not to move,” Tobirama reiterates, moving Madara’s hand back above his head. “If you can’t follow simple instructions, I will leave you here, completely unsatisfied.” 

The answering noise is half whine and half growl, but Tobirama is a bastard no matter what the context. “I will leave you here with instructions not to touch yourself for a week.” 

Madara whines, because he knows that it isn’t an empty threat. “Would you like just a taste of what I will do to you? I would love to watch, you’re not nearly worked up enough for my tastes.” 

Madara's eyes snap to attention as Tobirama pushes himself back up and finds his chair. “Go on. Touch yourself then, since you feel the need.” 

The crossed arms and indulgent gaze are mocking. Madara’s cries are angry, but his empty hand wanders regardless. The stream of cuss words falling from his mouth fall flat of their sentiments, the gag taking all but the vowels. A long _ah,_ for _bastard_ , _uhk ou,_ for _fuck you_. 

“Fuck yourself Madara, let’s see how good of a job you can do.” 

His hand is dry around his cock, and his glare makes Tobirama raise his eyebrows before a single hand sign pulls water from thin air to pool in Madara’s hand. He doesn’t even try to say thank you, red silk dark where the spittle pools and spreads. 

“I’m waiting,” Tobirama reminds him, and it’s sinuously attractive. He’s maddening in the way that the Sharingan is; highly detailed, highly dangerous and deeply complex. It’s enough to drive Madara crazy, but not enough to make him stop. 

He moans low as his hand finally curls around his cock, thick and so very hard. The way Tobirama’s ruby eyes follow the movement of his hand as he _allows,_ no, _demands_ that Madara seek his own pleasure, betray his interest. He’s absolutely invested in the outcome, and it drives Madara to pump his hand a little faster, breath short and wet through his gag, watching Tobirama watching him and getting closer, closer to the edge he’s already been standing on from all of this talk. 

“Oh, are you close?” Tobirama asks, “do you want to cum? Do you want to cum for me?” 

Madara moans and it’s a broken sound, almost half a sob as he tries to tell Tobirama exactly how much he’d like to cum at this moment. “Yes? Yes?” Tobirama asks, and it’s a question meant to goad him on, it drives him closer, his hand squeezing himself a little tighter, giving into a grip that’s only _almost_ too much. “Yes? Are you going to cum for me?” 

“Ah,” and it’s the best he can do to say yes, to beg for yes, because he knows Tobirama, and this would be too easy, but maybe just once, he’s so, so, so close… 

“Stop.” 

His fingers freeze, conditioned to know not to go any farther than what Tobirama asks. He takes a shaky breath, drawing in all the air he can, and then he _whines,_ high pitched and long. Tobirama stands and comes closer again, leaning forward to brush his lips along his neck, head thrown back and eyes tightly shut, the long whine still vibrating in his throat. _Please,_ he thinks, and his lover chuckles like he knows exactly what he’s thinking. 

“I could let you cum,” Tobirama whispers next to his ear. He’s so oversensitized at the moment that it sounds like a bellow. “But I promised, this would go exactly how you imagined it, and when you imagined it, you came with my hand around your throat, you came with my cock inside of you, and you came _when I said you could_.” 

Madara’s breathing is heavy, the silk soaking in saliva and his hand clutching the little silver bell like a lifeline. 

“So let’s try this again,” he says, already moving Madara’s hand back above his head. When he brushes against Madara’s cock, he wants to _howl._ He’s a vision in white and blue silk as Madara lies near naked below him, his grin subtle and infuriating and his eyes narrowed and laughing as if he has tasted the victory he has laid out before them. 

One pale hand wraps lightly around Madaras throat, only constricting his air enough to make Madara’s eyes flutter as the restriction of oxygen and the denial of his orgasm send him into a moment of rapture. Tobirama’s words are all he can imagine as he teeters on the brink, words that whisper in his ear. “Ring the bell if you want me to stop.”


End file.
